by Natalie Dean
“Then I suppose it should be dinner. We could catch the show the next time we return to Boulder.”
“You would like to meet up with the wagon train when it arrives?”
“I would. It will be exciting to receive news from home.”
He dropped the subject until they were once again on their way back to the mining camp and their own slowly developing settlement. The food had been exceptionally good for western cooking; tenderized, seasoned steaks, fried potatoes with onions and freshly snapped green beans. Greta’s expertise in cooking the tough, gamey meat and mixing herbs and seasonings was as youthful as her appearance, although it showed promise of improvement with each meal.
She ate with relish, which made him happy, but something was lost. He had meant the day to be the first in formal courtship, and now it seemed to only reinforce his determination to allow her to make her own choices.
Joseph reasoned to himself, I’m not handsome, certainly not in the way that would normally command the attention of a young, pretty girl. She could marry into much greater wealth. I’ve seen the way men look at her. She wins them over with no more than a smile and a kind word or two. Above all, she is kind, and it’s only her kindness that would cause her to consent to marriage. I cannot take advantage of her kindness, although I can encourage her career.
He cleared his throat and clicked at the pony, who, despite Joseph’s warning as to its disposition, was growing fat and lazy under Greta’s care. “You know, Snake Bite isn’t really a pet although it must seem that way to someone who has grown up on a farm with rather large and powerful horses. Snake Bite is a breeding animal, a cow pony. He is a cross between a Shetland and a quarter horse. We’ve found that cow ponies adapt best to our terrain.
I’m breeding him out this winter to a ranch that has a number of nice mares. I’m thinking of bargaining him up for a couple of them and buying a larger carriage for two horses to draw. This way, we could bus children to school with parents who can’t get them there otherwise.”
“But you will be taking Snake Bite back?” Her voice sounded a little alarmed, and her fingers flurried to tuck her end hairs into her bonnet. “You’re not trading him?”
Joseph shook his head and gave a short laugh. “No, just his services. I was wondering what you thought about it.”
“Well, yes. I believe that’s an excellent idea. There are quite a few children who would come to school more often if they didn’t have to walk or rely on their parents.”
The sun was settling low over the mountains. In the dusk, they stopped to light their carriage lamps, then continued along the trail. It was still several more miles, but it would be several more hours before the night prowlers began stalking victims. He hastened Snake Bite a little, anyway. The animal really needed more exercise.
“When the railroad comes, Boulder will grow rapidly. It may even take over our own settlement with time. We may even become annexed into the Boulder school system. Their educational committee is highly industrious. They even talk of building a university. Miss Samuelson, with your skills, you would be a great contribution to our academic society.”
“Are you asking that I stay?”
The words he wanted to say knotted up in his throat, and he answered weakly, “Our school needs you.”
“I see.” Whatever she saw, she pulled her shawl up over her shoulders and contemplated the trail ahead. Joseph cursed himself, wishing he could tell her, “I need you”, and knowing if he did, it would compromise what he really wanted; to earn her love.
The rest of the ride home was splattered by the lamplights swinging by the trees and the somewhat elusive moonlight hiding behind clouds, shimmering through trees and revealing itself in bursts over open fields. As had become their custom, Joseph put away the buggy while Greta attended Snake Bite.
They were both silent until they had entered the house and put away their outer clothing. At the bottom of the stairs, before retiring to her room, Greta turned and said, “I want a puppy.”
Joseph stared at her, just a little confused and a little amazed. “You want a puppy?”
“Yes. Your house needs one. A puppy will liven it up.”
“I will attempt to be livelier.”
She laughed and placed a hand under his chin. “You will fail. You live by too many rules. A puppy, though, doesn’t live by any. You have to teach them. That’s what makes them lively.”
“I hope you don’t say such things to your students.”
“Only the part where they need teaching.”
He followed her up the first few steps, unwilling to let go of her scent, the warmth that seemed to wrap around him as soon as he got close, the soft tingle of her laughter. On the fourth step, he paused and took hold of her arms, turning her around. He felt the velvety texture of the flesh just above the elbows and caressed it gently. “Good night, Miss Samuelson. I very much enjoyed your company today.”
“Good night, Mr. Marston. I enjoyed the day as well.”
Joseph gripped the staircase railing as she disappeared into her room. Please, he whispered to the empty passageway, please don’t choose to leave me.
Chapter 6
The wagon train was coming. Runners had been galloping ahead of it for days, announcing its progress. Not all who traveled the trail continued on to Oregon or California. With each wagon train, a few people stayed, adding to the growing community of settlers. They were bending the land and shaping it to fulfill their needs. They were farmers and merchants, blacksmith’s and tanners, all hoping to set down roots that would flourish and grow.
The Colorado/ Wyoming territory was just as good for setting down roots as the lush Oregon country on the other side. The soil was rich and loamy, and fresh, clean water was plentiful. Money ran like rivers in the mining camps, but cattlemen etched a permanent prosperity with their solid, far-spreading ranches. The Boulder area preened itself, waiting for the new arrivals.
Greta’s feelings had become so mixed she couldn’t say there was any one way to describe them. She was excited. Atchison was a main thorough way for all western bound traffic. She was accustomed to meeting the trains as they passed through and knew they had ignited her desire to travel. She wondered if the train would ignite this passion again, or if her happiness would be confined to seeing fellow citizens of Kansas.
She picked up her brush and ran it slowly through her hair. Along with excitement, she felt dread. She knew that when the wagon train came, Joseph would expect her to make a choice. Although her position was secure and she was free to leave anytime she wanted, practicality told her that the longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave it all behind. The harder it would be to leave Joseph, who still had said nothing about getting married.
She looked at herself in the dresser mirror. The early morning sun was just beginning to sneak through the window. It played over the top of her head, making her curls look fuzzy and yellow, and found a place to settle by the far wall. Outside, a rooster fluffed his feathers, crowing. Within these walls, it was an orderly life, no different than the one she had left. Outside them, was a different world; one that attempted to piece together order from disorder. Joseph had been right about one thing. Administering to the broken shells of men defeated by war was far different from administering to the wayward and lawless, but it wasn’t more hopeless because children feed on hope. Their survival depended on hope.
“Oh Lord, I don’t know what to do. If I stay, will I have failed to answer my calling? Was I meant to continue on into unexplored territory where my brother waits or is my place here among your untamed children? I have grown fond of the community here and have learned much of their ways and customs, but it is most difficult, Lord, most difficult to overcome my affections for Joseph. Wouldn’t it be better, more sensible, to continue on my way so as to forget him? I would be most grateful if you would provide an answer.”
It didn’t really feel like a proper prayer. Her upbringing had taught her primarily a system of thankfulness, not petition
s for favors. Still, she reasoned, all she had really asked for was guidance, and if the prayer had felt uncomfortably different, it was because she had never felt herself at such a crossroads before.
Joseph was already up and moving around in the kitchen. With a last look in the mirror to make sure she was neatly groomed, Greta tripped down the stairs and watched him coax a fire in the kitchen stove, and set coffee on to boil. The coffee was a luxury that he doled out in tiny amounts to stretch out six months, leaving the pot on the back burner for two or three days at a time until there was no possibility of extracting more flavor from the beans.
Today it was fresh. When it perked, the aroma would fill the kitchen. Greta greeted him cheerfully and picked up the egg basket. “Special occasion?”
“No. It’s just that with winter coming in, fresh coffee is more pleasant. The mornings have become chilly.”
“I’ve noticed. The chickens have been getting lazier about setting.”
“I’m surprised they are still setting at all. They must be trying to please you.”
“Or they are afraid you’ll put them in the stewpot,” she chirped brightly.
“I’m not really such a villain. I know they need a rest period. Besides, if we ate all our chickens, how will we have some for laying eggs in the spring?”
Greta picked up on Joseph’s nuances. Lately, he had been habitually using the word “we” when talking about the future. She knew what he was doing. He was subtly trying to talk her out of joining the wagon train, but he hadn’t spoken the words she was waiting to hear, and those words had nothing to do with how valued she was by the community or how dangerous it was higher up the western trail.
Even after checking all the hiding places, there were only four eggs. Greta placed them at the very back of the eggs stored in the pantry, moving the oldest ones forward. “Our chickens have definitely gone on vacation,” she said when she returned. The smell of coffee now overwhelmed the kitchen. Their breakfast was reheated beans, scrambled eggs and thick wedges of bread. Greta’s baking skills were a point of pride. She still hadn’t developed the knack for tenderizing Colorado’s sinewy meat, but she was quite adept at baking bread, biscuits, cookies, and cakes.
While they were eating, Greta noticed there was an unusual amount of traffic on the road to Boulder. “Has the wagon train arrived?” she asked.
Joseph flushed and scowled, but rose from the table. “I guess we should find out.”
Odd how reluctant she felt. A part of her hadn’t really wanted to know. A part of her had hoped that the train would slip by and they would be too late for her to join it. She would have an excuse to stay a little longer, hoping Joseph would change his mind about marriage. But as they drew closer to the riders, her reluctance grew stronger until it brought the same terrible pressure she used to feel each time the mail brought unimaginable horror through a letter, notice, or news item. Her knees began to shake and her hands felt clammy. This wasn’t just reluctance. This was dread.
Joseph felt it as well. She could see it in the tight knots around his jaw, the paleness in his face. Something terrible had happened, and it had nothing to do with her. Greta shivered and drew her cloak tightly around her neck, blocking a cool gust of wind. Overnight, winter’s pall had rattled the trees so their limbs scraped lifelessly against the sky. A few large, circling birds appeared as black pencil marks that only added to the sense of foreboding.
Greta watched Snake Bite’s breath snort out in purple plumes. The vapor reminded her of the giant feathers the dancehall girls wore. Dancehall girls reminded her of festivities. To keep her mind occupied, she turned to Joseph and said, “Do you realize it’s only a few more weeks until Christmas? If the wagon train would just stay until then, it would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?”
Joseph snuggled her hand into both of his. She felt his thumb rub worriedly over the glove at the top of her hand, then squeeze her hand gently. “Winter is a bad time to attempt the pass. Higher up, the snowfall can be heavy. If the passage is still clear, the scouts will want to push on quickly, before a storm front comes in.”
“You don’t think they’ll wait then?”
“Three weeks? No. They won’t wait three weeks unless they’re snowed in. They’ve been lucky. The weather has been dry.”
“Maybe it isn’t the wagon train at all. It could be something else.” She took both his wrists and leaned toward him, looking earnestly into his eyes. “I should like very much to spend Christmas here… with the children,” she added a bit hastily.
“It would be safer travel if you waited until spring. Why leave in the middle of winter and guarantee a harsh journey?”
“Is my safety all that concerns you?”
He started to answer, then drew her attention to a new rider coming up the road. Nothing in his manner reflected the usual joy and excitement that the news of the wagon train caused. His horse clipped at a steady but controlled pace, and the rider kept his head down while his body swayed disinterestedly to the rhythm of his stead. Joseph waved him over. “Why is everybody leaving town?” he asked.
“Not ever’body,” said the man. “Just those of us who were at peace with ‘im.”
“And who is him?”
“Why no less than Dodger Jim Nelson. He done lied his last lie and stole his last ounce o’ gold. He were lynched last night. They found him hanging from a tree about five miles up the road.”
She felt first, a roaring in her ears, then slumped, nearly overcome with shock. She felt Joseph steady her from behind, his hands circling her upper arms. She leaned against him, listening to his quickening heartbeat and his sharply drawn breath. “I knew him. I teach his boy,” she whispered, clinging to him. She wanted to burrow in the safety of his arms and pull it up over her like soft cotton.
He took his handkerchief and dabbed away the sweat from her brow. The rider tipped his hat and urged on his horse. “I’m sorry to disturb the gentler sex, but this be where we’re going, just to make sure it’s Dodger Jim who’s truly dead and it’s Dodger Jim who’s getting a proper burial. I never had no grudge with him, but I ain’t never had anything worth stealing, either.”
“This is what I’ve been referring to,” said Joseph grimly. “This is the type of barbarism we have to face and fight. Miss Samuelson, I will not blame you if this life is too harsh for you. It is from incidents such as this one that I have tried to protect you.”
Greta struggled to gain her composure, then sat straight up in her seat. “Mr. Marston, Dodger Jim is Noel’s father. Noel is enrolled with our school, and his mother is a member of the parish. It is our duty to give them consolation.”
At her insistence, they took the buggy out and followed the line of people that had already thinned out to a few stragglers. When they arrived at the hanging site, the corpse had been laid out on the ground. Most of the good citizens felt he should be buried on the spot as none felt quite comfortable with having their loved ones resting next to a thief, nor did they feel his widow should pay out good money for a casket and a funeral.
The widow stood to one side with her hands clasped to her son’s shoulders. She said nothing while the group discussed what to do with the body until Joseph spoke up. “We should take him to the parish and let the deacon decide his final resting place.”
“Nay, Mr. Marston,” she said. “There is no need for that. Dodger was neither a God-fearing nor a respectful man. Let him be buried as the town wishes. I am done with him. I am done with it all.”
The woman began to cry then, great heaving tears, and her body shook, yet it seemed to be fear more than it was grief. Greta put her arm around the woman’s shoulders and walked her away from the rest of the group. They were nearly all men. The three women who did appear among them stood back and whispered to each other. They were wives who knew very little about Mrs. Nelson, relying primarily on the information they received from their husbands.
Greta’s own knowledge of the woman wasn’t much better. She knew that Mrs. Nels
on kept a boarding house that had been slapped together with scrap lumber and rough planks. Her clientele was often dubious characters; swindlers and racketeers whose reputations had cornered them into desperate living conditions, failed entrepreneurs and gamblers whose bad luck streak never seemed to end.
She knew that despite Dodger Jim’s light-fingered approach to life, Mrs. Nelson was an honest woman who attended church each Sunday and who sent her son to school each day in clean, carefully darned and mended clothing.
“He wasn’t a bad man, not at first,” said Mrs. Nelson. “But everything he turned to did him no good. He wasn’t a good military man. He hated it. He hadn’t served more than six months when he deserted and just started pushing his way west. I’m from a small town in Iowa, close to the Nebraska side. That’s where I met him. I suspected he was a deserter, but I didn’t care. He was so young and so handsome. I was in love with him.
He wasn’t a good prospector, or a good farmer or a good carpenter. The only thing he was really good at was the sleight of hand. It became his habit, along with boozing and loose women. He forgot about being a good man and only became a good liar. If his life has not been payment enough for the damages he has caused, then let his immortal soul suffice. But don’t ask my son to pay for the sins of his father.”
“I wouldn’t ask that. Who would ask such a thing?”
“It has been done! The same mob that murdered Dodger has beaten my boy, Noel. He barely escaped with his life.” Mrs. Nelson pulled up the boy’s shirt to show the bruises on his back. They were dark and swollen and looked especially painful where they wrapped around his small, delicate ribs.
“Oh!” cried Greta, kneeling beside him. “Two of his ribs appear damaged. The deacon knows a great deal about medicine. You should take him to the church. We can judge then whether or not he needs a doctor.”
“Miss Samuelson, I can’t go back. Don’t you understand? They’ll kill my son!”
“Then you will stay with us.”